


the little things you planned ain't coming true

by GingerAlchemy



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Allies To Lovers, Alternate Universe - Supernatural (TV) Fusion, American setting, Angel/Human Relationships, Angels vs. Demons, M/M, angel!Martin, hunter!jon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:21:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28725768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingerAlchemy/pseuds/GingerAlchemy
Summary: Jon and Daisy are America's most chaotic monster-hunting team. But when the duo runs into trouble battling demons, Jon doesn't expect to meet his very own guardian angel. Nothing goes according to plan after that.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 9
Kudos: 32





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a love letter to November of 2020. I had a lot of fun embracing a ridiculous concept here, and I hope you have fun reading <3

“I’m telling you, there was no one there, Sims.” Daisy looks around the clearing as if to prove it. If she can’t see it, it must not be real. 

“And I’m telling you, there was. It was a man. About so high,” Jon gestures with his hands to a space in the air slightly above his head. “He carried me out.”

“Oh, well that’s great that you found a knight in shining armor to save you from the demons that were trying to damn our souls, but meanwhile here in the real world, I was fighting for my life! You left me alone for nine minutes. Nine minutes! I could have been taken down _there_.”

“Oh, that sounds terrible. From someone who really _was_ taken down there, I can tell you it’s not a vacation!”

Daisy opens her mouth to speak, revving up to continue her argument, then stops short. She looks like she might be constipated. 

“Down there, you mean like…”

“Yep.”

“Hell?”

Jon scratches his head. “As far as I can tell. I can’t actually…remember that much of it.”

Daisy crosses her arms and squints at him suspiciously. “Right,” she says slowly. “So you dropped dead in the middle of a fight, got yourself dragged to literal Hell, and then some tall, mysterious man in a—what did you say? An overcoat or something—some random guy saved you? And now you’re back and everything’s normal? That doesn’t sound odd at all.”

“It was a trench coat.”

“What?”

“He was wearing a—you know what, never mind.”

“You’re so full of it.” Daisy glances off to the right, in the direction of their car, which is her tell. Jon ducks to the side as her arm swipes over his shoulder, forcefully enough that had it connected, it would have hurt. 

She shrugs, drops her fist. “Guess it is you,” she says.

“Yes, it is! Thought we’d established that when I came back and helped you kill the rest of the demons, but apparently saving your immortal soul isn’t good enough.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Come here for a second, Sims.”

She reaches for her flask of holy water, and Jon throws his arms up. Normally, he’d submit to the regular procedures, but for some reason, he’s just not having it today. Surviving Biblical Hell will do that to a person. Jon wonders if it’s possible to get out of a harrowing traumatic experience and mainly just feel like a cat having its fur rubbed the wrong way, or if there are other terrible side effects he should be watching out for. Daisy's appraising his expression as though she expects him to snap or evaporate or turn into a monster (well, more of a monster) at any moment. 

Jon doesn’t feel like having a conversation about this anymore, so he stalks off towards the car. He didn’t even start this conversation angry, but he’s angry now. 

It’s not abnormal for their cases to end like this. He and Daisy argue all the time. Their very first case together, she’d thought he was a vengeful spirit and thrown salt in his face. Then they’d circled each other warily until they found the real vengeful spirit in record time, trying to outdo each other all the while. After a beer or five at Daisy’s favorite bar—Jon had hated the place, but she’d promised they’d go somewhere up to his standards next time—they realized that they balanced each other out. 

Jon can’t kid himself—he’s scrawny. He’s only managed to survive this long out of blind luck and stubbornness, as well as an uncanny ability to know the weaknesses of his opponents. He’s still got a posh accent that every American hunter he’s ever met has mocked mercilessly. He’s an excellent researcher, but he’s less excellent at throwing punches. Fortunately, Daisy has that part covered. It’s not that they always get along, it’s just that when they do, they’re unstoppable. 

This time though, it really galls Jon that she won’t believe him. He can’t say why. He absently kicks at a scruff of grass on the side of the road. 

After a moment, he hears Daisy’s heavy, booted tread. Always clomping around like she owns the world. It irritates Jon as much as it comforts him. 

“Look, Sims, I’m sorry. I have to be sure it’s really you. I don’t know a better way.”

“You could just ask?”

“I _was_ asking.”

Jon sighs. “It’s fine. Just—” 

Daisy sloshes his arm with the holy water, and Jon swears and shoves at her. She eyes the sleeve of his hoodie until she’s certain he won’t start sizzling, and only then does she relax. Jon gives her the glare of the century.

“Daisy! For god’s sake, give me some warning next time. Ask my favorite film or something.”

“I don’t know your favorite film.”

Jon ponders this for a moment. 

“I’m really more into documentaries, actually. I’m not a big movie person, but there was an excellent study done last year by—”

“Okay, and I’m stopping you there. We’re grabbing a beer, or whatever fancy posh drink you want to order this time. On me.”

“Oh, very generous, Daisy.” 

He rolls his eyes, but heads towards the passenger seat of the car. He and Daisy usually take turns driving it, and it’s his turn, but for some reason, his whole body aches at the moment. He’s not sure he can take another forty-five minute drive back to the motel, much less whatever celebratory plans Daisy chooses to drag him through. 

She seems to realize this, glancing briefly towards the driver’s side and nodding. Then she claps him on the shoulder. 

“It’s no problem. After all, I’m not the one who got dragged to Hell and then revived by a hot stranger.”

Jon shrugs her off and scowls. “That’s…I don’t even know what that—I mean I never said he was—”

“Hello?” says an entirely new voice.

Both Jon and Daisy whip around. Daisy’s already got the knife in hand, while Jon’s slower on the uptake. If they’ve missed a demon or two, Jon doesn’t know what he’ll do, because at this point in the evening, he’s feeling less like a real human and more like a bag of salt sagging over to spill on the floor. 

But the person standing in front of them isn’t holding any weapons. In fact, he’s got both of his hands up, empty, as though he knows what they’re thinking. Or more likely, he sees Daisy’s knife and the red gashes on her forearms. Maybe he’s noticed the bodies of the creatures that once were human, smoldering in a clearing not far from here. 

Daisy starts to lunge at the intruder, but Jon grabs her arm, holding her back, although he’s not sure why. 

“Wait,” he says. And nothing comes out of his mouth after that. He squints at the stranger. Something about him… “Do I know you?” Jon finally asks. The man looks familiar somehow, even though Jon already knows all the hunters in the area, and he’s helped kill most of the other creatures he encounters—and that pretty much concludes his social life. 

The man tilts his head to the side, just staring at Jon for a long moment. His eyes are very blue. He looks like he’s trying to figure something out.

“Maybe,” he says. “Hello, Jon.”

Jon frowns. “Is that supposed to…mean something?”

The man suddenly coughs, looking away past Jon’s shoulder. “No, I guess not.” An expression flits across his face for a moment, but Jon can’t tell what it means. The man has a round, pleasant face, and Jon really feels like he remembers it. The man clears his throat, seeming to come out of his musings, and looks straight at Jon again, his mouth a neutral line. “Back there,” he gestures towards the clearing. “I’m the one who sort of…gripped you, and raised you from—well, you know.”

Jon stares at him blankly. “No, I don’t.”

The man sighs. Jon can feel Daisy nudging his shoulder, but he ignores her. 

“I thought this part would work itself out.” The man holds out a hand. Jon does not take it. “You can call me Martin. And I brought you out of Hell.”

“What?” Jon’s brain feels like it’s been deep fried like one of those godawful fried pies Daisy eats at every county fair. 

Daisy nudges him again, harder. “The coat, Jon.”

Jon looks past the man’s face—his eyes are hard to bypass. The intensity of his focus makes Jon feel unsettled in a way he can’t name. But then Jon sees what he’d been missing. Below the man’s rumpled ginger hair and oddly calm demeanor, he’s wearing a brown trench coat. It looks a bit singed. 

Jon takes a quick breath in. He’d thought that part was a hallucination. Sure, he’d wanted Daisy to believe him, but he hadn’t thought she would, because he hadn’t believed himself when he said it. 

“You—I mean, why?” Jon flounders. 

Martin shrugs. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Who are you?”

“I just told you. Martin. I could run through the whole spiel. Angel of the Lord, bringing lost souls out of perdition since—” Martin tilts his head to the side again, thinking. “Well, since today. But it’s not that relevant, really.”

“Not that—it seems fairly relevant to me! And what do you mean, ‘lost souls’? I’m not a ‘lost soul.’ That’s ridiculous.”

Martin stares at him again with that blank, angelic look on his face. It’s starting to infuriate Jon. “Well,” he says, as though he’s speaking to a child who’s wandered away from his parents in the supermarket, “I’m pretty sure you were. Until I, you know, saved your life.”

Daisy coughs beside Jon. It sounds suspiciously like a laugh. 

Jon turns on her, betrayed. She shrugs. “You know how much I hate to say this, Sims. But you didn’t get out of there alone, that’s for sure.”

“I—you don’t know that!”

“I do,” Martin, angel of the Lord, says, in his most irritatingly calm voice. “I’m not sure what your customs are here on Earth. But in Heaven, a thank you might be in order.”

“Fine!” Jon throws his hands up. “Thank you, Martin.”

For the first time, Martin’s mouth tilts in something that might be generously termed a smile. “You’re welcome, Jon.” He turns his head to look at the sky, as though he’s hearing someone call his name. For all Jon knows, he really is. In that moment, with the last rays of autumn sun glinting down on his profile, he looks completely alien. A stranger on Earth. His eyes have gone blank. 

“Well, I’ll be going now,” he says.

“What, just like that? You don’t want to…get a beer with us or…?” Jon is aware that the suggestion sounds ridiculous as soon as he says it. Do angels even drink? Do they eat? They surely don’t just get a post-slaughter beer with a group of rag-tag hunters in their ancient car.

Martin blinks, then blinks again. The way he’s capable of standing perfectly still unnerves Jon. Martin’s every action seems to be _on purpose_ in a way that Jon’s have never been. His movements are so deliberate, Jon feels like he’s perpetually on the brink of handing out some type of angelic proclamation.

But instead of telling him to _be not afraid_ or whatever angels are supposed to say, Martin just shakes his head. 

“Maybe next time,” he says. He steps up to Jon, puts one warm hand on his shoulder—Jon feels it like a burn. “We’ll meet again, Jon.” 

And then, without fanfare, he vanishes.

Leaving Jon wondering if maybe he is a lost soul, after all. He’s never felt so disoriented in his life.

Daisy sucks in a breath. “What the fuck was that, Sims?”

Jon just shrugs, looking up at the sky as though Martin might appear again. “I really don’t know.”

Jon turns back to the car and gets into the passenger seat, and after a moment, Daisy climbs into the driver’s seat. They start the drive back to the motel, but Jon’s mind isn’t on the road in front of them—the endless grey stretch of tar and pine trees that doesn’t seem to change, no matter what state they’re in. Jon isn’t even thinking of Hell, although he should probably be preparing for the fallout. Instead, all Jon can think about is the library of one of the safe houses he and Daisy have set up. In the morning, he thinks he’ll make up some excuse to visit it, because he needs one specific book that details one specific piece of lore, ancient and probably not even true.

If angels do exist, then there’s got to be a way to contact them. What Jon needs is a good summoning spell.


	2. Chapter 2

There is a handprint on Jon’s arm. He discovers this post-burger, post-beer, when he’s about ready to collapse in his shitty motel bed out of sheer exhaustion. He takes a quick look in the mirror to make sure he hasn’t missed any scrapes that could get infected. But he doesn’t see a cut. It’s a whole print, fingers and all.

At first, he assumes one of the demons got too friendly, and goes to scrub at it in the mirror, already dreading having to take a shower if it turns out he needs to wash someone else’s blood out of his own scratches. But at soon as he touches it, winces and pull back. It’s not a print from blood, but a burn. He should have realized this, but well, it’s been a long day and he’s not in a particularly analytical frame of mind.

And then he remembers what the angel said— _I sort of gripped you._ Jon runs his index finger lightly over the surface and shudders. If just the touch of the angel burns this badly, what could he do if he really wanted to hurt someone? Jon’s not sure whether the thought terrifies or comforts him. 

He stares at his own face in the mirror—gaunt and tired in the florescent light. It seems like a problem for tomorrow morning. He sighs. This will be hard to explain. 

Daisy keeps looking at the side of his face when she thinks he’s not paying attention. It’s hour one of their drive to Faith, Wisconsin, where an old friend of Daisy’s called them in to investigate a string of suspicious murders. 

Apparently, the woman owns a bar. All of Daisy’s friends seem to either own rural bars or frequent them. For a woman who started her hunting career in London, she’s acclimated too well to the American experience. Jon sometimes just wishes a Tesco would pop up along the road. He knows better than to expect anything but trees and more trees, though.

Daisy’s still giving him the side-eye. 

“You know, if there’s something you want to say, I’m all ears,” Jon grumbles. 

The coffee is starting to wear off. This morning he’d been awakened at four by the TV suddenly turning on. The static buzz had continued until, blind with exhaustion and irritation, Jon managed to pull the right cord. When they’d asked the manager about it, he’d mumbled something about bad wiring. 

Jon wasn’t convinced, but he was also too tired to argue. Despite the fact that he can’t remember Hell, his body knows what it was to be dead and wants to remind him. 

“It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it,” Daisy says.

The softness of her voice unnerves Jon. Well, now he’s worrying.

“You know it doesn’t actually help when you say that.”

She taps her fingers against the steering wheel.

“What do you think he wanted? Martin. Assuming he’s really what he says he is, why would he save you?”

Jon shrugs. “Will of God?”

Daisy shoots him a look.

“I know, I don’t believe it either. When we get to somewhere with a decent internet connection—”

“Hey, wasn’t my fault that place didn’t have wifi. They said, bad wiring.”

“You know that doesn’t have anything to do with—never mind. Point is, while you’re talking to…” Jon blanks on the name Daisy had mentioned earlier.

“Basira.”

“Right. While you’re meeting with Basira, I’m going to the local library. The angel said we could call him Martin, but it didn’t sound like that was his real name. Still, it’s a place to start. We’ll search the databases, contact a few people, figure out what he really wants. And then we’ll track him down again.”

Daisy purses her lips. “Track him down—you sure that’s a good idea at this point? Normally, I’d be all for it, but you’ve just come out of the underworld. If we end up having to fight him, we need you at your best.”

“We won’t.” The certainty in Jon’s voice surprises him. 

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I don’t think it’s about fighting him. I think…he could be an ally. I mean—if there is really a God, or a—a Heaven, a whole new category of beings, then. I need to know. And he can tell me. Daisy, if there’s even a chance it’s true, we have to follow up. He could help us.”

“Okay,” Daisy draws the word out. “You realize we’ve never met a supernatural entity that didn’t want us dead.”

Jon opens his mouth to speak, but at that moment, the radio bursts into a squeal. Daisy swerves, curses, rights the car from where it’s nearly curved off the highway. There’s static for a long moment, the harsh high-pitched whining kind of static that makes Jon instinctively cover his ears. 

“Shit,” Daisy says, gripping the wheel tighter. She’s slowed the car to the actual speed limit, which means she must be shaken. 

But then Jon can hear…there’s something underneath the static. The ugly screech dies down a bit, and then there’s the hum of words, too low for him to understand. After a few seconds, it resolves into a scratchy rendition of a song by some 80s band Jon probably should know. Daisy raises her eyebrows as the singer announces _every night you’re out there darling, you’re always out there running, and I see that lost look in your eyes—_

Jon reaches up to swat at the radio until it turns off and leaves the car in a heavy silence. He looks away from Daisy.

“Case in point,” she says.

“Right.”

Case in point. 

Jon’s arm starts to burn again, right where the angel touched him. He looks out the window to hide the fact that he can feel the tips of his ears burning too.

The library was a bust, though Daisy apparently had more luck with her conversation with Basira at the bar. She promised to fill him in on the news after they’d both slept—but said she’d be out for the night. Jon didn't ask for details. Daisy tells him when it’s a hunt. Whatever she’s doing tonight, it’s not hunting.

Sometimes Jon wonders if he should spend more time, well, not hunting. He doesn’t quite enjoy it the way Daisy does, and his mind tends to focus on the case with an intensity that propels him through most of his life. All that’s left outside of his endless search for knowledge is nights like this.

Sleepless, restless, Jon rolls over again. The red motel clock reads 3:15. He sighs and throws an arm over his eyes, hoping to blot out his higher powers of thought along with his sight. 

It doesn’t work. After another few minutes, he removes his arm and opens his eyes again to stare at the light through the blinds.

A light which is currently being blocked by a tall figure. Jon starts, reaches automatically for the pistol on his nightstand, knows his blurry vision makes surviving this encounter less of a probability. He thought that he salted the area, but—

“It’s all right, Jon.”

The figure speaks in a low, calm voice. He hasn’t moved an inch. And Jon recognizes the voice. His heartbeat slows, though he still can’t quite rationalize it.

“Martin?”

“That’s me.”

Jon grips his chest, purposefully takes a breath. “Why are you here?”

Martin doesn’t answer. Instead, he just squints at Jon. 

“Are you all right?” he says.

“I—Well, I’d be better if you hadn’t manifested from thin air in my motel room! Look at that,” Jon gestures to the salt on the ground. “It’s there for a reason, you know.”

Martin looks where Jon’s pointed. He nods, unperturbed.

“Salt doesn’t hurt me.”

“Oh, I would never have guessed.” Jon crosses his arms, feeling suddenly self-conscious about his old band t-shirt and boxers, the ratty flannel he has on to protect him from the relentless motel air conditioning. It’s not exactly the apparel he’d have chosen for an angelic meeting. Martin doesn’t seem to notice, though. He just keeps looking at Jon. It’s starting to get old, being inspected like some type of interesting insect specimen. If anyone should be doing the inspecting, it’s Jon.

“Why are you here?” Jon repeats.

“Just checking up on you. Your friend knows some dangerous people, and the path you’re on will eventually put you in harm’s way.”

“Oh, how prophetic.”

Martin blinks. “Thank you. Anyway,” he starts to move toward the dirty kitchenette, vaguely directing his arms in the direction of the cabinets. “Sorry, do you have tea?”

“What?”

“I could make tea.”

“Do you even—I mean, you’re not human, how are you going to drink it?”

Martin looks down at the tips of his scuffed-up shoes. “The tea would be for you. Humans like it, sometimes.”

Jon feels a laugh start to bubble up in his throat, but coughs instead. “I, um. That’s kind of you, Martin. But it won’t be necessary.”

“Oh. Good. I don’t really…know how? I mean, it’s been a while.”

Jon nods. “You seem like you’re not from around here.”

“Well, no. I’m from Heaven.”

“It was a—I’m sorry, bad joke. Of course not.”

Martin shuffles around a bit, until Jon gestures to the rickety chair in the desk across from the bed. Looking relieved to have something to do, he sits. His gaze is no less intense from Jon’s level.

“Like I said. I came to warn you. Some of the people you’re tracking want the world to be different. An apocalypse. You need to be careful.”

“An apocalypse? As in…”

“Famine, plague, death, disease. Lucifer rules the earth.”

Jon swallows. It’s a lot of information to take in at 3 in the morning. “Well what do you want me to do about it?”

“Stop them before they get there.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Daisy and I aren’t exactly running the universe at the moment. We do our best, but we’ve barely got the tri-state area covered, much less the world.”

It’s hard to tell in this light, but Jon thinks that Martin actually rolls his eyes. 

“You won’t be doing it alone. You’ll have help. From me.”

“I…thanks, I guess.”

“Wasn’t my choice.”

“Right. Well, then I suppose that saving me wasn’t your choice either. I mean that was from…higher up, then?”

Martin’s face softens almost imperceptibly, but he nods. “They gave me the order.”

“Can’t imagine why.”

Martin shrugs. “Maybe you deserved to be saved.”

“Hah.”

Martin gets up from the chair, walks up to Jon carefully as though he’s approaching a cat underneath a car hood. He stops just in front of Jon, resting the tips of his fingers against Jon’s shoulder. Jon expects to feel the burn of pain again, but he doesn’t. All he feels is the warmth of a human body, even if it sends a little shiver down his spine. He feels suddenly awake, where before he’d felt groggy and disoriented.

“You don’t think you do deserve it. You think I should have left you there.”

The way Martin says it, all wonder. Jon’s breath catches in his chest.

“You don’t know anything about me. You don’t know what I deserve.”

Martin’s face twists, just that little bit, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he traces his fingertips carefully down to where they’d first found Jon—the mark he’d left.

“Did I hurt you?” he says absently. “Sometimes I can’t tell.”

“Oh, you do this a lot, then? Drag unsuspecting sinners out of the pit?”

“No. I don’t.”

Jon clears his throat and shoves his flannel down his arm so Martin can see the print. “You didn’t hurt me,” he lies. The mark is sore and tender to the touch. “Not much, anyway.”

“All right. Just checking.”

“Martin, I never got a chance to—”

But when he looks back up, Martin is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If for some reason you're reading this and you've never seen the kitchen scene from Supernatural s4 episode 2, go watch that. It drives me insane. Much love to anyone reading. We will get through this freezing February together <333

**Author's Note:**

> Give me the kick in the pants I need to write more of this. I think the tma fandom DESERVES a supernatural au. And we DESERVE angel!Martin. The thought behind this was, what if Martin was an angel but literally? What then?


End file.
